The Pistoleer: A Novel of John Wesley Hardin

There’s nothing worse can happen to a man than to fall in love with a hot-ass bitch. That’s what happened to Marty. Hell, she used to give me some looks, and I ain’t nothing to look at. If it had a dick, she was interested.

Me and Vic and Tom were at the cantina table in Juárez with them when Scarborough told Marty that Hardin was keeping company with his wife. He said it real casual, while he was rolling himself a smoke. He said everybody in El Paso knew it too and was having a good laugh about it. Marty’s grin looked like wood. He said what the hell did he care, she wasn’t his wife no more. He said he’d divorced the no-good tramp in Ojinaga a coupla months ago, so she could fuck all El Paso for all he cared. Bullshit. He was lying to try and save face. Whenever Marty was really steamed, a big vein on his forehead would swell up, and just then it looked about to pop.

“Well,” Scarborough says, “you mighta divorced her and all, like you say, but I bet those fellas laughing at you in the saloons across the river don’t know it. I bet Hardin don’t know it.”

He was smart, Scarborough, egging Marty like that. A couple of days earlier, when he figured Marty was holding out on him, he said he’d arrest him next time he crossed the river. Old Selman had throwed a fit about being cheated and said he’d shoot Marty if he set foot back in Texas. But now Scarborough wanted to deal. “Cut me half the take from the cows,” he said, “and I’ll set Hardin up for you.” He’d trick him into showing up at the railroad bridge in the middle of the night and Marty could be laying for him and let him have it.

“What about your bigmouthed pal Selman?” Marty says. “He want the other half of the take?” Scarborough says, “Fuck Selman. Old bastard don’t know how to get along. This is between you and me.” Marty wanted to know how he would get Hardin to go to the bridge in the middle of the goddamn night, and Scarborough says, “Hell, me and him are big buddies now, ain’t you heard? I’ll tell him a dealer I know is selling some guns to some Mexes at the bridge tonight and wants to hire protection for himself in case the greasers try a cross. Hardin’ll go for it. He’s trying to prove he’s still the man he was before he went to the pen. Been pushing his luck lately.”

“I’ll push his fucking luck,” Marty says. All right, he says, it’s a deal—only he ain’t giving Scarborough a nickel until after Hardin’s taken care of. “Sure,” Scarborough says with a big phony smile, “I trust you. Just don’t forget to bring the money.” Marty gives him a go-to-hell smile back and says, “Don’t worry about that, George. I always keep my money on me—all of it. It’s the safest place.” Scarborough says, “All right, then—the rail bridge at midnight,” and heads back to El Paso to set the thing up.

That night, Marty posted me at our end of the bridge with my Remington repeater to cover their retreat if they had to make a run for it back to our side. Then him and Vic and Tom went out to the middle of the bridge to meet Scarborough. There was a mist on the river, but the other side was lit up by a streetlight good enough for me to see everything. At the far end of the bridge, a pair of ice wagons stood on one side of the tracks. George Scarborough came out from behind one of them.

They met out on the bridge and talked for a minute. Scarborough pointed to the wagons like he was saying that was where Marty could lay for Hardin. Marty nodded and they all headed that way.

As soon as they got to the end of the bridge, Scarborough pulled his gun and shot Marty twice in the head and jumped off to the side just as rifles opened fire from one of the ice wagons and a shotgun blasted from the other. Vic and Tom went down before they could clear their holsters. I ducked behind one of the bridge posts and watched from the shadow. Hell no, I didn’t shoot. It wouldn’t of helped Marty and Vic and Tom one bit, but it likely woulda brought the shooters running over to kill me too.

All that shooting didn’t take five seconds. Then Scarborough scoots out and takes out Marty’s gun, fires it in the air and drops it on the ground, then quick cleans out Marty’s pockets. The police captain, Milton, and a man the next day’s newspapers said was a Texas Ranger came out from behind one of the wagons, both of them with carbines—and from behind the other wagon comes Wes Hardin with a shotgun. I’d always figured Milton was in on the deal for those cows we rustled in Little Texas. The Ranger too, I guess. Lawmen—Christ! A dog’s hind leg ain’t as crooked as a lawman.

Hardin gave the scattergun to Milton and hurried off down the street, but Scarborough, Milton, and the Ranger stayed and smoked cigars while a crowd of excited sports came out of the nearby saloons and gathered to gawk at the bodies.

The newspapers said they were shot for resisting arrest on warrants of cattle rustling, but the talk in the saloons was that Hardin had paid Scarborough and Milton to kill Marty so he could have Beulah McRose for himself. Well, he wanted the bitch, all right, and he got her—but he did his own shooting, like I said. The others were just paying Marty back for crossing them. While they were at it, they crossed Old Man Selman too, for some damn reason. Hardin musta been behind it, though—because just look how Selman got even with him.